“It is to prevent that, I’m leaving her with you,” said Aunt Cynthia.  “You simply must not let anything happen to her.  It will do you good to have a little responsibility.  And you will have a chance to find out what an adorable creature Fatima really is.  Well, that is all settled.  I’ll send Fatima out to-morrow.”

“You can take care of that horrid Fatima beast yourself,” said Ismay, when the door closed behind Aunt Cynthia.  “I won’t touch her with a yard-stick.  You had no business to say we’d take her.”

“Did I say we would take her?” I demanded, crossly.  “Aunt Cynthia took our consent for granted.  And you know, as well as I do, we couldn’t have refused.  So what is the use of being grouchy?”

“If anything happens to her Aunt Cynthia will hold us responsible,” said Ismay darkly.

“Do you think Anne Shirley is really engaged to Gilbert Blythe?” I asked curiously.

“I’ve heard that she was,” said Ismay, absently.  “Does she eat anything but milk?  Will it do to give her mice?”

“Oh, I guess so.  But do you think Max has really fallen in love with her?”

“I dare say.  What a relief it will be for you if he has.”

“Oh, of course,” I said, frostily.  “Anne Shirley or Anne Anybody Else, is perfectly welcome to Max if she wants him. I certainly do not.  Ismay Meade, if that stove doesn’t stop smoking I shall fly into bits.  This is a detestable day.  I hate that creature!”

“Oh, you shouldn’t talk like that, when you don’t even know her,” protested Ismay.  “Every one says Anne Shirley is lovely—­”

“I was talking about Fatima,” I cried in a rage.

“Oh!” said Ismay.

Ismay is stupid at times.  I thought the way she said “Oh” was inexcusably stupid.

Fatima arrived the next day.  Max brought her out in a covered basket, lined with padded crimson satin.  Max likes cats and Aunt Cynthia.  He explained how we were to treat Fatima and when Ismay had gone out of the room—­Ismay always went out of the room when she knew I particularly wanted her to remain—­he proposed to me again.  Of course I said no, as usual, but I was rather pleased.  Max had been proposing to me about every two months for two years.  Sometimes, as in this case, he went three months, and then I always wondered why.  I concluded that he could not be really interested in Anne Shirley, and I was relieved.  I didn’t want to marry Max but it was pleasant and convenient to have him around, and we would miss him dreadfully if any other girl snapped him up.  He was so useful and always willing to do anything for us—­nail a shingle on the roof, drive us to town, put down carpets—­in short, a very present help in all our troubles.

So I just beamed on him when I said no.  Max began counting on his fingers.  When he got as far as eight he shook his head and began over again.

“What is it?” I asked.